The morning sea was cold and bracing.  The two friends did not remain in for long.  When they were dried and dressed again, and when Geoffrey was for returning to breakfast, Reggie held him back.

“Come and walk by the sea,” he said, “I have something to tell you.”

They turned in the direction of the fishing village, where Geoffrey and Yae had walked together only a few hours ago.  But the fires were quenched.  Black circles of charred ashes remained; and the magic world of the moonlight had become a cluster of sordid hovels, where dirty women were sweeping their frowsty floors, and scrofulous children were playing among stale bedding.

“Did you notice anything unusual in my manner last night?” Reggie began very seriously.

“No,” laughed Geoffrey, “you seemed rather excited.  But why did you leave so early?”

“For various reasons,” said his friend.  “First, I hate dancing, but I feel rather envious of people who like it.  Secondly, I wanted to be alone with my own sensations.  Thirdly, I wanted you, my best friend, to have every opportunity of observing Yae and forming an opinion about her.”

“But why?” Geoffrey began.

“Because it would now be too late for me to take your advice,” said Reggie mysteriously.

“What do you mean?” Barrington asked.

“Last night I asked Yae to marry me; and I understand that she accepted.”

Geoffrey sat in the sunlight on the gunwale of a fishing-boat.

“You can’t do that,” he said.

“Oh, Geoffrey, I was afraid you’d say it, and you have,” said his friend, half laughing.  “Why not?”

“Your career, old chap.”

“My career,” snorted Reggie, “protocol, protocol and protocol.  I am fed up with that, anyway.  Can you imagine me a be-ribboned Excellency, worked by wires from London, babbling platitudes over teacups to other old Excellencies, and giving out a lot of gas for the F.O. every morning.  No, in the old days there was charm and power and splendour, when an Ambassador was really plenipotentiary, and peace and war turned upon a court intrigue.  All that is as dead as Louis Quatorze.  Personality has faded out of politics.  Everything is business, now, concessions, vested interests, dividends and bond-holders.  These diplomats are not real people at all.  They are shadowy survivals of the grand siecle, wraiths of Talleyrand; or else just restless bagmen.  I don’t call that a career.”

Geoffrey had listened to these tirades before.  It was Reggie’s froth.

“But what do you propose doing?” he asked.

“Doing?  Why, my music of course.  Before I left England some music-hall people offered me seventy pounds a week to do stunts for them.  Their first offer was two hundred and fifty, because they were under the illusion that I had a title.  My official salary at this moment is two hundred per annum.  So you see there would be no financial loss.”